


silence

by threadoflife



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, SO MUCH FLUFF, long after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 15:44:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10468464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threadoflife/pseuds/threadoflife
Summary: Long into their relationship, Sherlock and John still cuddle on the sofa as if it were the first day.





	

**Author's Note:**

> my phone has suffered so much since s4 aired...
> 
> http://wssh-watson.tumblr.com/post/158861235832/against-his-neck-sherlock-breathes-john
> 
> edit:
> 
> I AM SCREAMING, THE WONDERFUL KHORAZIR DID AN ILLUSTRATION OVER AT TUMBLR FOR THIS :"""") LOOK AT IT
> 
> https://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/159156294883/against-his-neck-sherlock-breathes-inspired-by

Against his neck, Sherlock breathes.

John doesn’t know if Sherlock is awake or not. It doesn’t matter, anyway: there is no need to speak, right now. The silence around them is thick and comfortable like an additional blanket, a kind of warmth wrapping itself around John’s usually aching, hollow bones.

His nose is buried in Sherlock’s hair. It is thick and tickles the skin around his philtrum when he exhales. He doesn’t stir or move away; Sherlock’s hair is thick, it tickles, and it smells wonderful. John had known that, of course. He had tried out Sherlock’s expensive shampoo before--but it is altogether very different to have the scent of it twined with Sherlock’s own. Granted, it’s weak at best, which is a good excuse to nuzzle Sherlock’s hair more, rubbing his lips over scalp, letting them catch in numerous small, little kisses.

For no reason at all, after a while, Sherlock shifts, tilts his head and–-God: he kisses the skin over John’s wrist from where John’s hand is curled around his ear. Just a fleeting press of lips, a brief sensation of warm, damp skin, and with a content, “Mmhh,” Sherlock settles back in place, his nose pressed into the side of John’s throat.

This same scene with different variables–-they’ve had so many of these now. Five years into this relationship, which was what they always should have had but which took them too long, and this silly man, who weighs more than he looks, who is draped lazily, comfortably over him-–still has the power to make his pulse jump. Five years. Five years, and they’re both nearing the later stages of forty, and Sherlock’s temples begin to take on a fetching grey, and here they are holding each other tightly as the first night Sherlock was brave enough to take John’s knuckles, press them to his lips, and say, “John,” only his name, but John had understood. He’d understood. Of course he had.

They’ve become good at talking. They’ve become so good at talking that silence has changed fundamentally for them: now silence is part of their communication, and they can sit in it and smile at one another because all the unsaid things have been said.

But John likes to say them anyway. He’s a romantic, Sherlock would say. Sherlock is right, obviously.

“I love you,” he says, quietly, ruffling Sherlock’s hair with his words. “I’m glad you’re here.”

His fingers on Sherlock’s nape tighten once but relax again. Sherlock must feel his pulse coming faster against his face, nestled as he is right against John’s throat. Once that knowledge would have made John’s pulse come even faster still–shame, embarrassment–but now he can leave Sherlock there, let him hear it, sense it. He trusts Sherlock with all of him, now.

But with age, Sherlock has become predictable.

He pulls back, makes an effort to sit up-–grumbling a little while he does-–and leans over John, stares right into his eyes. Their noses brush. “You fool,” Sherlock says, softly. “Becoming sentimental in your old age?”

John’s chest twinges, but he plays is off with a cheeky smile. “Maybe,” he says. He cups Sherlock’s cheek in his palm. “But maybe you’re just predictable and I wanted a kiss and let you do the arduous work of moving?”

“Devious, Dr Watson-Holmes,” Sherlock chides him with a twinkle in his eyes. “Whatever shall I do with you?”

“Kiss me,” John says easily. “It’s one of the things your clever mouth is rather good at.”

Sherlock briefly pushes his face into John’s palm with a satisfied smile. When he pulls off, there’s mischief in his mouth, but his eyes are soft, so soft.

John stares at that softness. He has come to love rather than be terrified by it ever since Sherlock kissed his knuckles.

“It is,” Sherlock agrees in a murmur, and he dips forward, tilts his head, and brings his mouth to John’s.

The silence around them expands, emphasising the low, wet noises of their kissing, the rustle of their clothes.

Silence need not stifle; it can be complementary, can fill, instead of drain.

It fills John’s bones until it soaks his heart in it too, warm and sated and content. When Sherlock’s eyes open, when he feels Sherlock’s mouth curl against his, he knows he’s not alone in this.

Of course he isn’t.

 

[art by the lovely khorazir over at tumblr!](https://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/159156294883/against-his-neck-sherlock-breathes-inspired-by)


End file.
